


Algolagnia

by emmaliza



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst and Porn, Denial, Dubious Consent, Episode: s02e01 Redemption, Episode: s02e02 Shadow, Erotic Electrostimulation, Guilt, Implied Rape Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Masochism, Sexual Fantasy, Trauma, fetishising your own trauma for no fun and no profit, torture fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: "I can only imagine how much easier our lives would be if you had some outlet for your sadomasochistic impulses, apart from trying to get yourself and others killed.”Or, Avon asks questions. Blake doesn't like the answers.
Relationships: Kerr Avon/Roj Blake
Comments: 19
Kudos: 24





	Algolagnia

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have only just started watching this show like, a week ago, but am apparently jumping in with both feet.

It starts as one of Avon's jibes, the sort of thing to which he has long since grown used. Or, to be entirely comprehensive, it starts as one of Vila's: “Pity I never got to explore Space City. Wouldn't have been worth it in the end, mind, but still – they say there are girls there who'll do things you've never heard of for five credits. That you've gotta see.”

Blake manages a smile for their thief in residence. “I don't think it is in any of our best interests to go about parading our libidos in those sorts of places. Or any sort of place.”

Vila pulls a face like he is far from convinced, but before he can say anything, Avon intervenes. “Shame,” he says, cool and collected as ever. “I can only imagine how much easier our lives would be if you had some outlet for your sadomasochistic impulses, apart from trying to get yourself and others killed.”

A jibe. The same as thousands of others. Blake should just ignore it, for Avon does loathe to be ignored. And he does, but nonetheless it gets under his skin, leaves him feeling sticky, dirty and unsettled. It weighs on him hours later, when he finds himself and Avon the only two on the bridge.

It drives him to speak up. “You should know,” he says, keeping his tones as measured as he can, “what you said before – it's not true. That's not the reason I pursue the Federation.” What he's saying is so patently obvious he's not sure why he's saying it. Yes, he's heard men can do absurd things in pursuit of sexual gratification, but not risk their lives, surely. “You might think me stupid, or mad, but I don't want you thinking I'm... some sort of deviant.”

Avon takes a long time to answer. Blake feels oddly embarrassed by that. Too late does he realise Avon probably has no idea what he's talking about, one cold remark blending into hundreds of others. “Well, I didn't, until you took the time to deny it.”

Blake feels hot and cold all at once. He feels like he's been led into a trap, but there's no-one he can accuse of leading him there. Avon's eyes remain carefully on the controls, and Blake watches as he breaks into a smile. “Moral deviancy.” Finally, he looks up. “Curious phrase. So broadly defined, it could mean anything. Indeed, I could easily call you a moral deviant–” Blake's stomach lurches, “–for your sense of morality deviates quite far from what I, in my experience, have found to be the average.”

_Oh._ Blake wants to laugh with relief. “Careful, Avon,” he says, “or you might end up paying me a compliment.”

“I haven't decided that yet.” That catches Blake off guard. Slowly, Avon gets up from his position. “You don't seem to be denying it now,” he muses.

Blake blinks. He's lost track of the conversation. “Denying what?”

“That you enjoy being pursued and tormented by Federation officers.” Avon says it like it's as clear as daylight.

He averts his eyes. “No. Of course I don't.” Hurriedly he fiddles with some buttons at his station, nevermind the ship is on automatics, there is nothing for him to do.

“Most convincing.” He does loathe how Avon can put things in that voice of his.

Anger spikes in Blake's stomach. “Avon, the Federation captured me. Massacred my followers. Tortured me. Wiped my mind.” His voice goes up oddly at the end. He's not sure he's ever said it so bluntly before. “I would think I'd had enough pain from them to last a lifetime.”

There's a pause, and for a second Blake thinks that means he might be spared the rest of Avon's insights. But now he circles Blake, pacing, like he's an experiment responding in a curious way. “It's not so uncommon,” Avon shrugs, bewildering Blake, “in trauma victims.” Blake winces. _Victim._ He doesn't want anyone thinking of him as that, but especially not Avon, who does not seem especially inclined to be sympathetic in such circumstances. “A form of ironic processing, I'm afraid. The brain thinks most about what you don't want to think about at all.” Blake swallows hard. He thinks he knows where Avon is going with this. “A few crossed wires here and there, and you have a shameful sexual fantasy. Shameful to have, and shameful to admit to.”

Blake feels like he's burning up with shame. _No. No, it's not true. Avon doesn't know what he's talking about._ But if it's not true, why does he feel so hot inside? “And what would a computer technician know about the human brain?” he asks, desperate to distract from the conversation at hand.

Avon chuckles. “The human brain is just another computer. The most sophisticated and subtle known to man.”

“That's a very cynical thing to say,” Blake gasps.

“You might not have noticed this, but I'm a very cynical man.”

Blake looks up. Avon has made his way over to his side, looming over him knowingly. Blake should get up, for he has the advantage when they're on their feet – only a few inches, but enough. He could tell Avon to put a stop to this, and he would, Blake is sure of it.

Instead he only looks away again. “I don't like it when the Federation hurts us,” he says, trying to keep down the bile in his stomach.

“No, I don't think you do. Not in reality.” He can hear Avon sink to his knees beside him. “But you fantasise about it, don't you?”

Blake bites his lip. _No, no I don't._ He has no idea what's a fantasy for him. Not after what they did to him. Dream, memory, nightmare and fantasy – they all blend into one another, and he suspects he's better off forgetting them all. He wants his mind to be his own. Not whatever they made of it.

He tries to get up, but he finds there is something blocking his way. Something cool, hard and thin pressed against his neck, where his pulse throbs. “Avon,” he gasps, painfully aroused, “what is that? Where did you get it?”

“I have no idea what it's called,” Avon says, not missing a beat, “but I presume it's related to the technology they used upon us when the Liberator's creators' tried to reclaim their property. Do you remember that?” Blake gulps. Yes, he remembers – the wands those machines used, the level of pain they filled him with, at no more than the press of a button. _They weren't Federation though_. A technical excuse, he knows.

Avon turns the thing on. Blake gasps – and immediately it's back off again. It has time to shock rather than wound, but it leaves him aching in his trousers. If Avon didn't know how aroused he was before, he must now.

“Of course, this is just what I found in my quarters,” Avon says, as Blake's blood fizzes and tingles from the sudden rush of electricity. “The same basic technology as their weapons, but nowhere near as much power. This is no more than a toy. I have no idea what a computer system would want from such a thing, but – don't worry Blake, you're perfectly safe.” Avon turns it on again, long enough for Blake to feel it – for pain to flood his senses, and for him to moan obscenely. “That is, as long as you trust me.”

It switches off, but Blake doesn't stop moaning for a good few seconds afterwards. He's sure Avon must notice how his hips keen and buck in the air. “W-what do you mean?” he asks, trying to keep a clear head, although he knows he has long since failed at that.

Avon doesn't say anything for awhile, letting Blake squirm against the object, humiliating himself in his desperation. “There are two possibilities here.” Avon traces the bulge in his throat with the tip of the wand, eyes shining with delight. “Either I am merely playing a game with you, testing your limits, and indulging your silly, harmless fantasy.” The machine turns on again, and Blake cries out, hands braced against the desk. _If I'm not quiet, the others will hear me and come running,_ he thinks with horror. He can't imagine explaining to them why pain leaves him wet and desperate.

“Or...” The wand is still off, but Avon dives it deeper, teasing the dip of his shirt. “I am lying to you, and this weapon could well kill you. I mean to be rid of you in the most humiliating way possible, and once I am, I will steal your ship from right under your limp, lifeless body.” Blake shivers, the thought horrible to him, and he makes a vague attempt at escape, although it doesn't look any different to all the bucking and squirming from before. “Tell me, Blake,” Avon's breath is hot and wet on his ear, “which would you prefer?”

Blake moans aloud, without even the thing being turned on now. “Please, please,” he gasps, not knowing what he's begging for, but Avon shocks him with another blast of pain he wasn't prepared for. “Fuck!”

“Yes, that's right.” Avon sounds much too happy to hear him in such a state.

It's enough to make Blake struggle against him. “Let me go at once, Avon.” His nails dig into the arms of his chair.

“No, I don't think I shall.” The wand, off again, saunters vaguely upward. “I have no doubt that, if you wanted to, you could fight me off. Throw me to the floor. Punish me for such insubordination. And yet you haven't.” Blake whimpers as Avon switches the thing back on, at a much lower volume this time. “Leading me to the conclusion you want me to keep going. You crave this. Need this.”

When he turns it off again, Avon drags the rod back and forth across his face, and Blake's mouth drops open obligingly. He shouldn't, but Blake knows exactly what Avon wants him to do. He takes it between his lips, moaning as Avon starts to slide it back and forth. He knows exactly what he must look like, but he reasons that if he refuses, Avon will only turn the damn thing on again, and then he might lose his teeth.

And so that is Blake's excuse, as Avon slides the small, thin rod ever further down his throat, as it makes him choke, as his cock leaks and twitches between his legs. “So this is what you yearn for,” says Avon, his fingers threaded through Blake's hair, pulling at his tightly woven curls. “The Federation, if they ever caught you – they would want you broken – they would want to destroy you–”

Blake moans, helplessly, around the wand. Yes, he knows. They would kill him, most likely. And yet he can't imagine it being that simple. He has been the Federation's greatest enemy for awhile, they would want to break him. To humiliate him. He sucks harder on the rod. They would _want_ –

Blake cries out and then comes in his pants. Slowly, Avon withdraws the weapon from his mouth, and Blake collapses over the controls, almost sobbing. He didn't mean to do this. He didn't want it. Or at least, he didn't want to want it.

“Blake?” Avon's voice echoes from a while away, but Blake ignores him. He's long gone. Warm fingers touching his arm feel just like Federation cables to him. “Come now, Blake, don't be like this.”

Were he thinking more coherently, he would be proud of how genuinely concerned Avon sounds. As is, it doesn't matter. He has disgraced himself. He has enjoyed himself – spilt himself – over the awful things the Federation did to him. It is one thing, to have betrayed his deceased colleagues while held prisoner, wounded and brainwashed – but to have betrayed them for _this_ –

“Blake.” Avon's hand is beneath his jaw, forcing him to look at him. He doesn't understand. He is so full of grief and guilt he barely remembers who Avon is.

Reality settles back into him just as Avon sighs, exasperated and exhausted. “Avon!” he cries out as the other man walks away. “What was all that for?!”

He's lashing out, and they both know it. Avon, inscrutable as ever, simply raises an eyebrow at him. “Curiosity.” That only makes Blake angrier. _Was that all_? “I knew you must have some secret desire lurking inside you. But leave it to you, Blake, to have even your taboo fantasies be about the cause.”

“You may go now,” Blake snaps at him, but he doesn't look away quite in time. If he didn't know better, he would think he saw a flash of guilt in Avon's eyes.

There's a pause, and then Avon sighs. “Here.” A thud. Blake glances aside to see the wand now sitting on his table. “I think you'll get more use from it than I will.”

He walks out without another out, leaving Blake alone in the dark to stare at this weapon, sticky between his legs and with a sick, sad longing churning in his gut.


End file.
